Six Petals
by Crosabre
Summary: [Byakuya/Hisana] The flower of his life is wilting away, a petal fallen each day.


[**I**] Petal Falls.

It stirs, those despotic sands of cruel time pirouetting the splintered bloom upon a current of ghastly winter air.  
Poised, not even a ripple, upon a puddle birthed by the rainfall.

Where had it been written that one's heart must be as manifest in stone as one's pride? That the gallants of the nobility could not deign for the mortal hands of the commoners? What grotesque, contemptuous scriptures invoked such wrathful curses such as this, that by such forsaken love alone every taint and ailment beneath the beautiful starlight sought to break that which once beat so fair?

_Such is their curse._

Byakuya sits mindfully beside his falling wife, hands that were never forged to touch intertwined with one another as quiet, sombre recollections of meaningful vows that once were, offering the promises and apologies left unspoken between them.

Before the therapies, before the dusk, before the downpour.

There was light, once.

Kisses of wrongful, terrible temptations.

_We cannot be_, he reminded her.

_We should not be._

_And now I see why.  
This punishment is too great, too much. I cannot bear it._

* * *

[**II**] Petals Fall.

"Byakuya-sama," Hisana's squeeze is almost impalpable, transient and ghostly, with every ounce of stamina utterly diminishing her. Yet his attention remains devout, encouraging what can be done for signs of hopeless convalescence. Optimism, contrary to reality, is an element of his personality explored solely by the guidance of her hand; it's rather apt, therefore, that his experiences therein are through conversation with her alone.

"You scarcely talk of it anymore." His query is severed by the cue she lends herself. "Those noble houses. The grand mansions, the gardens that histories say could have grown four different Seireitei on wealth alone. The legends of the—" her sentence fragments into a rasp, a paled, frightening cough which threatens blood, but she's determined. Determined to spare a few words without shame or ignominy. "— The great Kuchiki House, extending back hundreds of years… You were so proud of it all."

He's utterly transfixed by the ethereal mist which tarnishes her once resplendent eyes. Once brandished by a vibrant exuberance of life-giving audacity, now faded and helpless, searching weakly, as if blind, to connect with her _widow's_ line of sight.

"My source of pride has since changed," he confesses, and though the truth to his statement leaves him undeterred, he cannot say the same of the lightest imbalance of tone with which he utters it.

It hurts to smile, but she bears it for him.

* * *

[**III**] Petals Fall.

Byakuya dusts the third disembodied petal from the otherwise immaculate bedding, while an infirm Hisana's barely touched her meal. She's looking emaciated, and it's not above his considerations that she's left herself undernourished.

"You should eat," he insists, concern fringing his voice.

Her response, a scarcely audible '_why?_', perforates deeply into him. It's not so much the question, rather its ammunition. Its exhausted, empty, disparate languish. The stoic Byakuya Kuchiki is often so sober, so pragmatic and mature. He's no longer that impetuous fireball caught, frayed, on the ends of the were-cat's claws. If this steel that he is has been tempered, then it's from the furnace of their union.

"It won't do you any good to neglect your health." It's hollow advice, but all truth can conjure at this iniquitous junction of fate. Dabbing her forehead with the rear flanks of his fingers, he checks the cold, corpselike expanse of her forehead. For something which was initiated in the hopes of allaying any potential despair, it's a fruitless endeavour.

"Hisana," but she interrupts him, the flare of her fever catalysing emotional extremes.

"Stop telling me what to do!" Her voice is so unnaturally suspended between horror and instability that the tears of crystal pixellate the dyes of her irises and restore their fervent colours in a manner which serves only to deepen the abrasion to his heart. "Whether I fill out my grave or not, it won't matter when I'm— when I'm…!"

She's taken aback by her own comments, more so than her husband — whose comprehension of her volatility and state of unrest quietens, rather than agitates, him. Mortified at her own behaviour, she envisages the reflection of a monster in the outskirts of her ceramic bowl. In delirious fright of her impending, ineluctable destiny, she overturns its contents, and weeps hysterically into her lover's dutiful arms.

"I… I'm sorry," she whimpers, short of breath. "I'm so sorry, Byakuya-sama…!"

He offers what consolation he can, with what kindness he must.

* * *

[**IV**] Petals Fall.

She's asleep today.

A fourth petal has scattered itself upon the crib of her hairline, and it's an accident of such pulchritude he disposes with any intentions to loosen it from her. Perhaps she's placed it there herself. Perhaps that's why her head's tilted to the left, in the direction of the vase's reflection, rather than her usual comfort in laying upon her right.

_Her breathing's slow. Placid. At ease._

He remains at her side, silently delving into the mysteries upon which her unconscious mind treads. In her dreams, she could be with him as they should be; she could be laughing, walking with him, as they once so often did. They're pleasant memories, like the reminiscence of careless summer evenings.

_I'm sorry, Hisana,_ he reflects despondently.

He feels the sleepless weight of his lids drawing them closed, and joins her.

When Byakuya's woken by the laughter of his wife, his immediate image is of the morning sun dousing the white-washed chamber of their nuptials. A healthy relationship, a healthy love, a healthy life and soul, and a healthy wife.

Instead, the room's grainy from the deluge outside, waterlogged a foul, macabre granite.

"Byakuya-sama," her entertainment is so carefully handled, fragile, as if the slightest jump of volume might startle her into another attack. "I'm deeply sorry, but… you were asleep on my legs."

"My apologies," he's reserved, but genuine: he never intended to awaken her, nor disturb. And moreover, in such a crass, irresponsible manner. The guilty descent of his blameworthy eyes, paralleling the monochrome of the surroundings, only enlivens the moment's joy for his forbidden wife, who straightens the collar of his garments.

"You shouldn't be so dour all the time, Byakuya-sama," she's so humble, even when taken as his lover. The formality of her address contradicts her, but he's in no place to dispute her. "I miss seeing that handsome smile of yours. I know it's probably my fault for being such a burden like this, but…"

"If I'm not to be so dour, then you're not to think so disparagingly of your worth."

"Please, don't make my leaving thoughts of you as lies. I can see the difficulties all over your face. You haven't slept, you barely eat… You're paler than I am. You're the role model of us both, not me. Look after yourself, okay?"

"Hisana—"

He waits for her to curb his rebuttal, and he isn't left in suspense.

"I know you," she scolds frailly, with the added, unique percussion of being his _wife_. Her hand blankets his own; she's no positive temperature, and it's like a deathly cool shroud of mist drifts down over the geography of his hand. It leaves him unsettled, before she raps it gently. "No."

"— No?"

"No. I won't see Byakuya-sama starve himself away for my sake." Although she's stern, meaningful and impassioned, she's never aggressive. Never confrontational. She bears every semblance of cherubic selflessness which could soothe even the most tormented of spirits. "I've already fallen. So don't you sulk on the ground with me. You keep walking forward, proud and strong; I don't want company where I'm going. I'm patient enough."

"_Patient_," he echoes. "Where was this all those years ago, when you were so quick to lay me as the scapegoat for your nefarious schemes?"

"The servants were so angry when they found us," another laugh escapes her, provoking a wistful angle to his lips.

"Sneaking out of the mansion at midnight, to bury one another in sakura petals." It's as close to a scoff as the refined heir can exert.  
"Still, as ridiculous as it is harmless."

"Almost as ridiculous as marrying a commoner," she quips, her tone a broken, strained whisper.

"Almost indeed," he concedes.

There, in memory of taboo and shame, they share their final smiles.

* * *

[**V**] Petals Fall.

_'Please find my sister'._

She's asleep again, today.

He hasn't noticed the fifth petal, its whereabouts vanished to the mercy of the elements. Today, he thinks not of mercies. He thinks not of the elements.  
He thinks of a whole, a fractured whole, sundered in half, with only memories to console him.

There is no whole anymore.

_Hisana._

His experience teaches him to pause for her interruptions.

Nothing.

Only now is he able to say it, finger skimming her still, thin wrist.

_I love you, Hisana._

She'll be asleep today, tomorrow, and every day left to come.

* * *

[**VI**] Petals Fall.

Her widow stands in the empty room, white sheets folded and vacant.

The wilted, dead plant is companion to the lonely sunlight of the dawn.


End file.
